


Feeling Like a Lead Balloon

by BardofEryn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale was a medic, Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is trying his best, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Just generally fluffy, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Seriously why did the one with literal healing powers have to get sick?, Sharing a Bed, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 16:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofEryn/pseuds/BardofEryn
Summary: Aziraphale comes down with a fever and Crowley tries to help. It goes about as awkwardly as you'd expect it to. Some cuddling is involved.





	Feeling Like a Lead Balloon

“How did you get it?”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, trying to focus through the haze in his mind. He had felt very sleepy and grumpy around closing time and had gone upstairs to take a nap. He pulled the handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and dabbed at his runny nose. “Get what?”

“Sick! How did you get sick?”

He collapsed face first back into his pillow. His head hurt and his throat felt like it had been scraped through the sandier parts of Jerusalem. “I don’t know.”

“You have to have touched something,” he said. “Angels don’t get sick.”

“I’m afraid this one does.” He coughed. “Now if you’ll kindly shut the door.”

He heard Crowley murmur: “I can fix this.”

Before he could look up to ask what Crowley was planning, he heard footsteps going down the stairs.

\------ 

He woke up to Crowley poking him with a spoon. He opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Crowley was dressed in a black grilling apron, yellow rubber gloves, and a face mask that covered his nose and mouth. He was leaning over him like some sort of macabre version of a hospital nurse.

“Wake up, angel,” he said, giving him another good poke. He held up a steaming bowl. “I have soup!”

He gave him a blank look before rolling away from him.

“Hah! Not so fast.” 

He felt him catch his shoulder and resigned himself to being slowly pulled onto his back. “Really, Crowley, you don’t have to...”

“Shh! Rest your voice. I’ve got this.” He scooped a bit of soup out of the bowl and held it up to Aziraphale’s lips. “Here comes the little airplane.”

He glared at him, took the spoon from his hand, and sipped at the broth. “Good Lord!” he said, after ruefully swallowing what he’d sipped. “Where did you get this?”

“Back of the cupboard,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Why? Is something wrong with it?”

Aziraphale handed the spoon back to him then rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Alright,” he said once he’d gathered his composure. He looked at Crowley with all the kindness he could muster. The ridiculous costume helped. “I know you’re trying to help, a-and I appreciate it, but it’s... Well, it’s painfully clear that you’ve never done this before.” 

“I was a nanny.”

“Who asked me to come into the house and look after Warlock whenever he got sick. That was quite a confusing experience for him, by the way.”

“What’s your point, angel?”

“My point is that I’ve been a medic for two different world wars and oftentimes couldn’t afford to miracle away problems.” He sat up a bit. “I have experience with illness. So, if you wish to help with... whatever this is - a flu, I think - you would do well to follow the procedure I have laid out for illnesses.”

“Does any of it involve soup?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ah.” He stared into the distance. Aziraphale began to worry about his kitchenette downstairs. “I’ll fix that later. Where’s the procedure?”

He gestured at the desk in the corner of the room. “Bottom right drawer, under: illness. It should be titled: ‘Colds and fevers.’”

\--------

To his credit, Crowley was a quick study. After reading the instructions Aziraphale had written down (and cross checking them with the angel because “keep hydrated” sounded more like a plant-thing than a person-thing), he fell into a routine of waking him up every four hours during the day to give him a cup of honey-lemon tea, and a bowl of oatmeal. He let him sleep through the night when he could. 

It was the times when he couldn’t sleep that got interesting.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whined from under the covers. 

He looked up from his phone. He had abandoned the mask, the gloves, and the apron, instead opting for a black leather purse that could carry important things like medicine and books. He had also moved a chair next to the bed so he could sit by him as he slept. “Yes, angel?”

“Are the dolphins alright?”

“What?”

“The dolphins,” Aziraphale said simply. He stuck his head out from under the sky-blue tartan quilt and looked at him with sad, scared eyes. “And the whales. They haven’t all been turned into stew?”

“No, angel. They’re doing fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Have you checked?”

Crowley put two fingers against his forehead and concentrated. “They’re fine,” he said, letting his hand hang over the side of the chair again. “Just checked with them.”

“Oh, good.” He melted into his pillow. “Would have been awfully sad if they had.”

Crowley gave him a fond smile and ran his fingers through the angel’s hair. “Well, they’re safe from the Apocalypse,” he said, feeling like raising illegal fishing would have gone poorly at that moment. “You can go back to sleep.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly and pressed his head into Crowley’s hand. “Feels nice,” he murmured.

“Good.” He let his fingers trail down to the base of his skull. “If I keep doing this, do you think you could go to sleep?”

He nodded.

Crowley scoot his chair closer to the head of the bed so he didn’t have to reach as much.

“Tell me a story,” he said as he relaxed into his touch.

He shifted uncomfortably. “You’re the one with all the books, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that suggested, had he been entirely well, he would have given him a long lecture on oral traditions. Luckily for Crowley, he just said, “It doesn’t have to be a book story.”

He thought for a moment. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a dove who stretched out its wing to keep a blackbird from getting wet in the rain.”

\------- 

It was hours later when Aziraphale started shivering. Crowley brought up every blanket-like thing he could find in the bookshop, which was one decorative afghan and a thick tablecloth. “Would it kill you to keep more bedclothes in the house?” he grumbled as he miracled a warm, woolen blanket into existence. He tucked it around Aziraphale, completing his angel burrito. “There,” he said, sitting down in the chair. “That oughta...”

“Crowley,” he whined. “Why is it so cold in here?”

He swore under his breath. “It’s not. You have a...” He looked at the card he’d pulled out of Aziraphale’s binder on colds and flus. “Sepsis.”

“What?” he said, his eyes shooting open.

He squinted at the card. “That’s not right. Ah! Fever, sorry.” He set the card down on the end table. “You have a fever.”

“Oh.” He closed his eyes again. “Those are... very different things.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m new to all this. It’s not like my lot normally go around healing people.”

Aziraphale only shivered in response.

He tapped his long fingers against the arm of the chair. If blankets didn’t help, what would? He thought about turning the room into a sun soaked beach, then realized that Aziraphale would be furious with him later for using so much power and getting sand everywhere. The heater he kept for especially cold, wet days was at his flat, but he didn’t want to leave him for that long. 

It was then that Crowley had an idea. He walked over to the other side of the bed. “Please don’t freak out,” he pleaded as he slid under the blankets with Aziraphale. He wriggled over to where the angel was and pulled him against his chest. “Better?”

Aziraphale snuggled up into Crowley’s embrace and let out a relieved sigh. 

He smiled softly. “Must be.” He placed his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, angel.”

\-----

“Crowley?”

He jolted awake. “Wha’zit?” he murmured. 

“The fever broke in the night. I’m feeling much better.”

“S’good.” 

There was silence for a moment. “Which is why I’d appreciate it if you’d let me get out of bed.”

“Not stoppin’ you,” he said, even as he hugged him closer to him. He felt Aziraphale rotate in his arms, then the soft touch of his lips against his forehead. 

“Ah, as I thought,” he said, pulling away. “Crowley, I really must get up.”

“Why?”

“Because you have a fever.”

“Wha? No I...” He shivered. “Shit.” He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale gazing at him fondly.

“It’s quite common I’m afraid,” he said. “I had hoped that, being supernatural, you wouldn’t be able to catch it, but human bodies are human bodies.”

“So what do I do?” he asked. 

“You shan’t do a thing.” He wiggled out of Crowley’s grasp and stood up. “You lie there and rest,” he said as he tucked the blankets around him. He kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll fix up some fresh honey and lemon.”


End file.
